Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  “Yes, fine! But still. An heir. Always pressing for an heir.”

  “It would make an annulment impossible and a separation at least improbable. However she may feel about you, or me for that matter, she would never leave her child.”

  “You are truly unbelievable! So that’s why you have treated her with such resentment. You would have her despise me as my mother despised you.”

  This seemed to hit harder than Archer had expected.

  “I suppose I thought that if you asserted your rights, and she wanted you all the same, then it would prove that Ethne’s failure to love me was her fault as much as mine.”

  “Her fault? Hers?”

  Sir Edmund offered no answer.

  In the silence, Archer rested his head in his hand and rubbed at his aching forehead.

  “There was Drake Everard to consider as well, you know,” Sir Edmund said at last.

  “What has Drake Everard to do with any of this?”

  “All that money gone, wasted, the debts, the interest always accruing and compounding. It was mine, the money. He’d gotten rich off me and a hundred others like me. And I saw a chance to get it back.”

  “It always comes back to money, doesn’t it?” Archer said. “That blasted money! I almost wish she’d been the pauper we always believed her. But then I suppose you knew from the beginning.”

  “I had my suspicions.”

  “And they proved true, to your good fortune.”

  “And yours, my son, don’t forget. That you wanted her was no small consolation.”

  “Your son.” Archer scoffed at the phrase “So you are my father. By blood and by law. And you are now prepared to confess it. As the house of cards comes falling down and you have no other choice? This is what you are trying to tell me?”

  “You must have had some idea. It cannot come as a complete surprise.”

  “You raised me as your illegitimate nephew!”

  “I am not proud of what I’ve done. Do you think this gives me pleasure? I might have, through you, done more to amend for my wrongs, but you remind me so much of her. I’ve always told myself that had she lived I would have been able to prove myself. But it’s a lie. Magnus’ death destroyed her, and I finished her off.” He choked and coughed and leaned heavily into one corner of his chair, a shell of the man he was an hour ago.

  Archer stood and paced the room. “And Imogen?” he asked at last.

  “What of her?”

  “Last night. What were your intentions? Had you not been interrupted, what villainy would you have committed?”

  Silence for a moment. Then: “I was drunk.”

  “That does not answer the question!”

  “I don’t know. I was not thinking.”

  “Did you mean to strike her? To harm her? You cannot have meant to force yourself upon her! My wife!”

  “Of course not!”

  “All the leering looks and impertinent remarks that I have ignored, turned a blind eye to, in the name of keeping peace! I should have left you to rot alone long ago. I should never have subjected her to this. Had something happened to her! And now I understand that besides your cruelty, she’s had the threat of Wyndham’s insolence to contend with! Heaven above! Am I not as guilty as you?”

  “You have not lost her yet.”

  “No,” he said more calmly. “No. Not yet. But I’m a long way from winning her. And I’m not sure, knowing what I now know, that I ever can. Who would want this?” he finished with a gesture that took in all the ruin around him.

  Sir Edmund, once recovered enough to stand, arose from his chair and crossed to his safe. From it he withdrew a stack of papers, a leather folio and a box. He opened the box and placed it on the desk before Archer.

  “Take it,” he said. “It is yours, after all.”

  Money. And a great deal of it. “I don’t want it.”

  “What do you propose to do without it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. She never wanted it, went to great pains to escape it. And now I see why, and what it can do. No.”

  Sir Edmund shrugged and replaced the money, then closed and locked the safe. He returned to his desk, took up a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper. He handed it to Archer. It was a series of numbers. A combination.

  “In case you change your mind,” he said. He then opened the folio and withdrew a piece of paper. This, too, he handed to Archer.

  “What is this?”

  “The missing pages. All the documents necessary to prove that you were born to Ethne and myself, that your name is Barry. And that you were married. To Imogen Everard with honest intent. You signed your name as you have always known it. In case it helps.”

  Then, and lastly, Sir Edmund took up a packet tied with a ribbon and handed it to Archer.

  “Letters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not to you.”

  “To Magnus.”

  Archer examined Sir Edmund suspiciously.

  “Even after he died she wrote to him. She refused to believe he was really gone. And then, in the last days of her illness, she continued her writing. I never read them. You wish to know her. It is the best way I can think of.”

  Archer nodded his gratitude and took these up.

  “I wish I were a loving man, my son. I wish I could tell you how much I regret, that I could change what has been, that I might give you what you really wanted from me.”

  So that was it? That was all he was to get by way of apology? By way of any admission of affection or respect?

  “All I want, sir,” Archer dared to say, and only barely choked out, “is a proper sense of who I am. And the freedom to pursue my own happiness.”

  Nothing. No answer. Not even an attempt to reply. Sir Edmund dropped once more into his chair, coughing and tired. Archer hated to leave him, but he could not bear to remain any longer with this lecherous, deceitful, murderous man who now, twenty-five years later, called himself his father.

  He turned and left the room, nearly running into the footman on his way out. “The doctor has come, sir,” he said.

  “Good. Very good.” Now he could leave him without a shred of guilt or misgiving. “Will you tell my wife, and the others, that it is safe to return to the house? And if Mrs. Hamilton is willing, I’d like the opportunity of speaking with her.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said and left.

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  Chapter sixty-nine

  RCHER SAT IN his room, facing the doorway that led to the room beyond. Hers. He needed to see her, to speak to her. But what to say? How much could he tell her, now, as she was preparing to leave him? How much dared he hold back? To form the words, though… It was beyond his ability to imagine. Before he was quite ready, the door opened and there she stood. He looked at her, saw the anxiety in her eyes and looked away, unwilling to accept that he deserved such sympathy from her. Not now, if ever.

  She entered and stood just before him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “And the fire?”

  “Deliberate.” He glanced to see her reaction. There was none.

  “Wyndham.”

  He should not have been surprised by her answer. “Yes.”

  She knelt beside him. “What next? Who next?”

  “Shhh,” he said, his brow lowered and still avoiding her gaze. “You’re safe. Or will be soon enough.”

  “I believe you.” And as if to offer some evidence, she laid her hand on his arm.

  He released a self-deprecating exhale of laughter but said nothing more.

  “You are hurt.”

  “No,” he said again.

  “Yes, you are. Look!”

  He did look, and found that his shirt had been torn and the exposed skin of the shoulder beneath had been burned. Having now realised his injury, he began to feel it as well.

  Imogen immediately fetched the wash bowl and the water, and then a few rags, and having wetted one, and holding it, hesitated.

 
He looked up at her. She appeared anxious still, and yet a trifle abashed.

  “I’m afraid I’ll need you to–”

  “What?”

  With a gesture, she indicated his shirt.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, and began to unbutton it. Only his hands trembled and he could not quite manage it.

  “Let me,” she said.

  With uncertain fingers, she freed the buttons. He removed one arm and then attempted to do the same for the other, but the fabric stuck to the recently formed and lacerated blisters.

  “One moment,” she said, and turned back to her room.

  To return a minute later with scissors. And with a steadying hand at the base of his neck, she endeavoured to cut away the shirt. Quickly and carefully she worked, while he focused his attention on the cool hands that touched his fevered skin.

  “It is very bad, I’m afraid,” she said now that the greater part of his shirt had been removed.

  “You needn’t do it if you don’t want to. The doctor’s come, after all.”

  “No,” she said, and went on with her work, placing the wet rag that she might persuade the wound to give up the last remnants of his ruined shirt.

  While she worked he returned to his thoughts. Inescapable now, they sucked him under, interrupted only when some sharp jab of pain recalled him. The touch of her hands on his skin soothed him once more, and reminded him that his battle had only begun. What more must he endure? He considered this for a time, while she finished her work, cleaning and then dressing the wound. And he remained considering until he was recalled by her voice.

  “Is Sir Edmund all right?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he answered, taking no pains to disguise his bitterness. “If he needs anything he knows how to get it.”

  Her reply was offered softly, regretfully. “Very well.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, taking the hand that rested on his shoulder and drawing her around to face him. “He was not injured. He inhaled a great deal of smoke, though, and suffers in consequence. The doctor has come, as I said. He’s in good hands.”

  Tentatively, she reached to him and laid her fingers on the bandages just placed there. She smoothed them, straightening and checking her work. He observed her trembling hands, the anxiety in her eyes, higher now than half an hour ago.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  Her smile was sweet, but it was clear she was only just holding together.

  “I should be asking you the question,” she said.

  “You have already. And I’ve answered it as best I can at present. It’s your turn.”

  She didn’t answer him, and recalling how distraught she had been to have him enter into the flame engulfed library, he realised how his shocked and troubled silence had only magnified her concerns. He reached out to her, to comfort her. To comfort himself as well. To assure himself of the reality of her presence, now, when she should be fleeing him and this confounded prison of a house.

  Not quite in full possession of himself, his fingers touched the silken material of her gown, Claire’s gown. No. He wanted her. He loosened the tie of the robe and it fell open. Beneath she wore only a chemise, low at the neck and cut well above the ankle. She did not shy from him as he raised his hands, both now, to spread the robe wider, to feel the warm softness of the woman beneath. As the folds of her linen chemise gave way to his touch, he felt his anger and bitterness melt away. And he ached. He stood, drawing her toward him. He thought to kiss her, really kiss her, and in her forget his pain and anguish, his rage and confusion, to find his home, his sanctuary from the world. To find her. How much would she allow? How much did he dare ask of her now? He searched her gaze, and finding there an uncertainty only, an anxiety but no objection, he drew her closer to him and pressed his lips to hers, infusing into himself just a bit of that soul’s courage she seemed so willing to bestow. And he needed it, needed her like it was life or death. He explored her unrestrained body, the curves and contours. He could feel her heart pounding, her chest rising and falling. Her breath caught suddenly as his hand grazed her breast. She stiffened. She did not pull away, but she was right. Now was not the time for this.

  Recalled now to the reality that was a nightmare, to all the secrets and lies and misdeeds he could not bring himself to speak of, and of those she had yet to confide, he stopped. And held her from him.

  “You should go.”

  “I—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes rested at her slippered feet, at her bared ankles. He dared not raise them higher.

  “Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

  His heart broke. How could she ask such a question? Harder still, how was he to answer it? “No,” he said, nearly whispered. “Never.”

  “Then why?”

  “I’ve wronged you. I wrong you more by asking this of you now.”

  Her look, still stoic, yet betrayed some tremor beneath, as though her equanimity were only on the surface, just ready to give way.

  “You’ll go tomorrow,” he managed to say. “As planned.”

  A tear spilled and he turned away from her to hide his own. He held it in and did not release the great heaving and shuddering sobs until he heard the door close and latch between them.

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  Chapter seventy

  MOGEN HAD RETURNED to her room unprepared for sleep. Her shame and confusion were indescribable. Her anxieties unbearable. She sat herself down upon her bed, the tears streaming and the blood rushing. In her wish to offer comfort, she had been prepared to let down every wall. And, if only for a moment, she had done it. All this time she had been waiting for her fears to subside. What she had not expected was that an overwhelming desire would overcome them. But it seemed, after all, he did not want her.

  She looked at the trunks laying around her bed, indistinct shapes in the darkness, mouths gaping wide. The thought of leaving him now, with such burdens to bear as were presently his, whatever they were, it seemed impossible. Yet he wished for her to go. And so, go she must.

  * * *

  It was very late when Imogen arose the next morning. And quiet. Hastily she dressed and left her room, checking first on Charlie. He had gone out, she was told, for a long walk with Miss Montegue. She went next to Sir Edmund’s rooms. The doctor was there still, had sat up with him through the night. He assured her that the man had sustained only the most minor of injuries, yet his coughing caused the doctor the greatest concern. A draught had been prescribed, and regularly administered. Still, Sir Edmund’s coughing persisted. He did not sleep, only lay there, his head turned toward one blank wall, unwilling to speak, hardly answering when spoken to. A brief glimpse of his profile revealed a man two decades older, careworn and spent. It was as if a shadow rested upon his countenance, darkening his eyes and casting an unhealthy pallor over his skin. But there was nothing she could do here. He wanted no one and would only allow Mr. Davis and the faithful Mrs. Hartup to attend him.

  Imogen went downstairs to the library, where several men were busy removing the soiled and damaged rugs, curtains, and sundry items of furniture so they might be cleaned, aired and repaired. Or discarded, as circumstances required. Every window and door in the room was opened wide. The smoke had mostly dissipated, though a smell of charred wood and wet ashes remained. Archer was sitting at his Sir Edmund’s desk, carefully studying a stack of letters. His head he rested on one hand as his fingers rubbed at his temple.

  “Did you sleep?” she asked him.

  He started and looked up, only then realising her presence. “Yes,” he answered. “A little.”

  “How is your shoulder? Do you need the bandages changed?”

  “Mrs. Hartup has already seen to it,” he answered and returned his attention to the letters before him.

  She was a little disappointed for this. “You have seen Sir Edmund this morning, then?”

  “Yes,” he said, through a jaw firmly set.

  Sh
e entered the room and shut the door as the last of the men left them. “Will you tell me what happened?”

  “I’ve told you already.”

  “Yes, you told me there was a fire, that it was deliberately set. But there is something more you have not told me. I want to know what it is.”

  “You have packing to do, I believe.”

  “You insist I go?”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Have you learned to despise me so much?”

  His brow lowered. “I’m trying to protect you, that’s all.”

  He did not look at her, simply stared at the papers before him. Yet she waited for more. For anything more.

  “It seems I have wronged you at every turn. I won’t be guilty of repeating the sin. When we have all the facts before us, your history, mine, everything—no more secrets, no more lies… Until then I have need to protect you from myself as much as Wyndham or my–” He cleared his throat. “Or Sir Edmund.”

  “He has told you, then.”

  He turned his head to her but did not quite meet her gaze.

  “He’s told you about your parents. Who they were. What your history is.”

  Archer released a mirthless laugh.

  She approached the desk to stand just beside him. “Will you tell me? I want to know.”

  “He has sent for his lawyer. You’ll hear it from him.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “You cannot ask me to explain what I can barely comprehend.”

  She had no reply to offer. Yet the semblance of so much formality seemed to auger a sense of doom.

  “I’ve sent for Mr. Watts. I hope the lawyers will be able to come together, but that I’ve had to leave in his hands to arrange.”

  “What does this mean?” she asked him.

  “I’ve told you. I mean for you to understand all. I cannot presently do it. But you must know. You have a right to know.”

  “Archer, please.”

  He did not answer her, and no further amount of pleading would move him. She turned and left him, as he no doubt wished for her to do.